Bite the Bullet
by Maestro Gimp
Summary: John cannot piece his life together after Sherlock's death. Unable to feel anything, even pain and grief, John decides to end it all. A timely intervention by a certain detective might keep him alive; but as John knows, there's a difference between being alive and living. Slow-build Johnlock. Trigger warning for suicidal thoughts and actions.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello! Recently got into Sherlock and I had to write about it. I specifically wanted to deal with the aftermath of Sherlock's death and how John handles it. Thus, this fanfiction! Apologies ahead of times; I am American, so some Britishisms might be lost (TV vs. telly, cell vs. mobile, etc.) although I'll try to be consistent.

Hope you enjoy!

Trigger warning: suicidal thoughts and actions ahead.

* * *

The gun rested on the side table, where it had been placed twenty minutes ago. John sat opposite, in his armchair, observing it. Curiously quiet, the whole affair. Wasn't suicide supposed to be a desperate, ragged act, punctuated by sobs and heartfelt soliloquies? This, his suicide, was quite the opposite; John had placed the gun there and set about making tea, and was now sipping it with an air of introspection, his right ankle resting on his left knee.

The note—for there were always notes, seemed standard procedure—blinked on his laptop screen, calmly absolving his family, friends, and acquaintances—such as they were—from all guilt or wrong-doing. The door to the flat was locked; he hardly wanted to traumatize Mrs Hudson with a gruesome discovery. No, he'd phone the police right before he pulled the trigger. Let them take him away in a body bag, nice, tidy, and zipped up.

Case closed.

The conclusion seemed rational for, as much as Sherlock had liked to argue to the contrary, John Watson considered himself a rational man. He was a doctor, first and foremost, and for every illness, there was a treatment. This was simply the only treatment remaining for his current affliction. No amount of therapy or drugs had induced any feelings of life into him after his friend's death. And now, six months later, he was beyond the point of crying and finger-point; never had been much for it to begin with. He was tired. Tired and numb. Even feeling pain might have prompted hope in him—hope that he might learn to feel again. But even that basic instinct was remiss.

He took a sip of his tea.

Deciding the method had been relatively easy. John didn't particularly care to languish in pain, nor did he want his suicide to fail. That meant a gun. He would have been inclined to put a bullet through his brain, but he didn't feel that was fair to the people who would find him. Lestrade might arrive on the scene and Molly might do the autopsy. No matter how professional they were, or how hardened they'd become from the job, he didn't want to put them through the sight of his head being blown apart. So bullet to the chest it was. He was confident about being able to find his own heart.

Cup empty, he set it down beside him. He brushed off his jeans and stood, military-straight. The gun was heavier than he remembered, but then again he didn't normally keep it loaded. He returned to his seat, discharging the clip, checking and rechecking the trigger action. Flawless. He reloaded it and set it aside and began probing his chest with expert fingers.

His mobile lit up and chirped.

John glanced at it, not pausing the examination of his chest.

 _1 New Message: DI LESTRADE_

He returned his attention to his chest, pressing a thumb down where he thought the aortic arch was.

The phone chimed again.

 _2 New Messages: DI LESTRADE_

John paused. The detective inspector didn't usually text twice. John noted the spot on his jumper where he'd decided to shoot and checked his mobile.

 _Crime scene, HM Prison Belmarsh. Could use a second opinion.- GL_

 _You're really going to like this one. Let me know. – GL_

John sat back in his chair, frowning. Now and then, Lestrade would still call him in to consult. Usually John couldn't tell him anymore than Anderson had already told him. He figured Lestrade hoped some of Sherlock had rubbed off on his flatmate. That, and it seemed it was Lestrade's tenuous way of maintaining some sort of friendship with John after Sherlock had died.

John looked at the gun and sighed.

It would be there when he got back.

* * *

The prison was larger than John had imagined. Tucked away on the southeastern outskirts of London, it was a multi-building complex that sprawled across ten acres, encompassed by a towering brick wall and barbed wire.

"Visiting someone, yeah?" the cabbie said as he pulled up the drive, armed guards scrutinizing their progress.

"Not quite," John replied, distracted by the looming structures.

Donovan met him at the first security check point as he was paying the cabbie. Accompanying her was a large guard carrying a shotgun, his lips pressed into a firm line.

"Lestrade's waiting for you," she said, not one for idle chitchat.

The guard stepped forward. "Arms out, legs spread, please, sir."

John complied, receiving a one-handed, yet thorough, pat-down. When the guard nodded, Donovan took the lead.

"Victim was in solitary at the time of his death," she said over her shoulder. "Guards come by every thirty minutes to check on the prisoners. At 9:00 AM, the prisoner was alert and responsive. When the next check came at 9:30 AM, he was unconscious. Paramedics were called for, and he was pronounced dead at 9:52. The security footage shows no one entering or leaving the corridor during the thirty minute window prior to the discovery."

John struggled to keep up with Donovan's brisk pace. "Natural causes and suicide have been ruled out?"

"Not wholly," she replied, "but this is the second death this week in solitary. The first was ruled a natural death by heart failure. Wasn't much looked into, not until it happened again today."

They passed through a series of secured doors, which the guard bypassed with a card. They walked through an administration building, office workers hunched over desks, before entering a secure wing where prisoners were kept. They passed through a metal detector, Donovan and the guard setting it off.

It began to look like a crime scene when they approached a bunch of medical and police personnel standing about. Some of them nodded to John, who returned their nods with a little wave.

The solitary corridor they went down was still mostly full. John was surprised, although he supposed he shouldn't have been. It would be a bureaucratic nightmare to have all the other prisoners transferred away from the crime scene. The floors and walls were whitewashed, marked by shoe scuffs and suspicious stains.

A ring of personnel loitered around an open cell, where Donovan deposited him. She hesitated, before murmuring, not unkindly, "The freak probably would've liked this one."

John didn't know how to respond, so he gave her a stiff nod and entered the cell.

Lestrade and Anderson stood talking in the center. Three other forensics people were inspecting the walls and floor. A disgruntled looking man sat on the cement cot, his hands cuffed, as two paramedics spoke with him and an armed guard hovered nearby.

"Where's the body?" asked John, approaching Lestrade.

The detective inspector smiled at him. "John! Thanks for coming. Uh, well, technically there's no body."

At this, the cuffed man grunted. "I'm sitting right here, you cunts."

"Inmate, watch it," grumbled the guard.

John looked between the prisoner and Lestrade. "So he's not dead?"

"He's fucking brilliant," snapped the inmate.

Lestrade made a helpless gesture. "He was. Medically, legally, he was dead for almost half an hour. No pulse. No breathing. Dead."

John blinked. "And now he's not."

"Right."

John considered the prisoner again. "So… you want me to examine him?"

"Right."

Clearing his throat, John turned to the prisoner, who was eyeing him none too kindly. The man was large, well-muscled and covered in scars and tattoos. His bald head gleamed in the fluorescent light.

John walked over to him, placing his medical bag on the floor. First time he'd needed a stethoscope on a case. Or anything to check vitals.

"I don't want any bloody pigs touching me," the man groused.

John put the ear pieces in and knelt, the scope in his hand. "I'm not with the police. I'm an independent medical consultant. I'm a doctor."

This cheered the prisoner considerably. "Why didn't you say so?"

He tried to smile in that reassuring-doctor sort of way. "Mind if I examine you? Check your vitals?"

The prisoner looked to the guard, who nodded. John bent forward, placing the scope just to the right of the man's sternum. Just where he was going to shoot himself earlier. He shook his head, trying to focus on the man's heartbeat.

It was steady and clear. No murmurs, no signs of heart disease. John moved to check his lungs, which also proved clear.

"Doc, I'm healthy as a horse. Never been sick in my life. I was fucking poisoned or something."

John nodded to the man, removing his stethoscope. He checked his lymph nodes, all of which were small and clear. He continued his exam, checking blood pressure, pulse, reflexes, and pupil dilation response. All perfectly normal.

"There's nothing wrong with him, as far as I can tell," John said, Lestrade standing over him. "He's in incredibly good shape for having been dead for thirty minutes. No sign of residual brain damage from the lack of oxygen and all his nerves seem to be functioning. If he came into my clinic, I'd give him a clean bill of health."

"So, not a heart attack," Lestrade ventured.

John shook his head. "Even if a patient survives a heart attack without treatment, you still see symptoms of it. The heart isn't pumping blood as well, so the patient usually struggles to breathe. More oxygen to compensate for the heart not working properly. His heart sounds fine, and he's not struggling for breath."

Lestrade nodded, taking in the information. "Anything that could have caused it that you can think of?"

"There are some drugs out there that induce a death-like state. It causes a sort of torpor in the body, makes breathing too shallow and pulse too low to detect. But it's rare, expensive, and dangerous. Not something I imagine you could get on the streets. Or, in prison, if you will."

"Anything else?"

John frowned. "Was there a tox report or autopsy on the other victim?"

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. "No. It was ruled as death by natural causes. But I'll order them as part of this investigation."

John nodded. "Good. Well, I don't think I'll be of any more use here. I'll head back if you don't need me for anything else."

The detective inspector mumbled an affirmative, still deep in thought. John grabbed his medical bag and left the cell. As he passed the second group of idling personnel, a guard flanked him. A different man from the one that followed him in, but the same grim line on his lips. He left John at the security point where the cab had dropped him off, leaving him stranded until his cab arrived.

* * *

As soon as John opened the door to the flat, he knew something was off. He scanned the room, hesitating in the doorway, looking for something that was out of place. When nothing obvious jumped out at him, he shut the door behind him and did a circuit around the living room, ghosting over Sherlock's many odd possessions. But, again, everything seemed as it should be.

John listened to his instincts; it had saved him many times in Afghanistan. But without any evidence of something being wrong, he had to shove the nagging feeling aside. Shortly, it wouldn't matter if a burglar had been through the flat or not. Nothing would matter.

The gun was right where he'd left it, and for some reason that was an immense relief to him. He allowed his fingertips to brush the barrel, as if to assure himself of its existence. It was still here.

John sighed, crossed the room, and locked the door. He sat himself in his armchair as before. A cuppa sounded nice, but he didn't think he had to patience to brew tea. It was already late afternoon, far later than he'd planned on doing it, and he didn't want to give time for doubt to creep into his mind. His suicide was a certainty, and that's how it would stay.

He picked the gun up. It felt lighter now. As if the burden of his task had become acceptable in some unseen deity's eyes. With his left hand, he sussed out the aortic arch once more, using a stitch on his jumper to mark it, and planted the muzzle against it.

Was he supposed to pray before he did it? John didn't believe in God. Not in the strictest sense. The world was far too messed up for an omnipotent god to be floating about the cosmos. But the universe was fantastic, like a perfect machine, governed by laws that repeated themselves predictably throughout the tapestry of existence. Too perfect to be an accident.

He'd promised himself he wouldn't pontificate, yet there was, becoming an amateur philosopher in the hour of his death. It was too melodramatic. Too… Sherlock.

John closed his eyes, finger on the trigger.

"Really, John, could you not make a mess of our flat?"

John's eyes snapped open.

That voice.

His eyes refused to focus on the dark figure in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. Refused to process what was before them. It was impossible.

"You're… dead," John said.

The man looked down at himself, then wriggled his fingers. "Hm. No I'm not."

"A dream, then. A hallucination."

"Please don't say ghost."

"A ghost."

The figure sighed and approached slowly. "I'm quite real, John. And not dead."

John felt his throat tightening. "You were dead. I saw you fall. I checked your pulse."

The man was too near now for John's eyes to ignore him. Tall, pale skin and dark, curly hair. Cheekbones like flying buttresses. Piercing blue eyes. "I can explain it all in detail. Just put down the gun, hm?"

The gun, quite forgotten, was limp in John's hands. He stared at it now, pointing haphazardly at his midsection. His whole body was shaking and he felt far away.

"John, the gun."

John looked back up. The person before him was undeniably Sherlock, real or not. Unbidden, tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. "I've gone completely insane," he mumbled to himself. He pressed the gun tighter to his chest.

"No, you're not insane. I'm real. I'm here. Just put down the gun and we can talk."

John flinched at his words. Of course his mind would make a last ditch effort to avoid the suicide. What he wanted most, the only thing that could save him—Sherlock—he had manifested for himself. "So damn pathetic," he whispered, voice cracking. He began to squeeze the trigger.

"John, no! Put it down!" Sherlock lunged for him, but he was too late.

John Watson had already pulled the trigger.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you to my readers/followers/favoriters/etc. You guys are awesome. Would love a review or two. Simply. Love. It. Sorry, this chapter is a little slower. I promise it will pick up and there will be Sherlock/John sexiness. Patience is a virtue. I am also curious to see if you guys want a chapter with Sherlock's perspective, as I plan on doing this almost solely, if not completely, from John's. Any particular scene where Sherlock's perspective would be beneficial/interesting/whatever? Let me know.

Please enjoy!

Trigger warning: talk of suicide, death, depression, etc.

* * *

Ella Thompson's voice was made for therapy, John decided. It was cool and soothing, like aloe on a sunburn. Even if she said something disagreeable or wrong, it was hard not to just nod along.

She was currently doing just that, saying something both disagreeable and wrong. But John couldn't find it in him to be angry. There was very little he could find in himself these days.

"The depth of your grief is mimicking that of someone who has lost a spouse, John. I'm not disagreeing with the facts; you and Sherlock never had any formal romantic relationship. But the extent of your depression indicates to me that you might do well to reexamine your feelings for him. You say he was your best friend."

"He was," John interrupted, his voice thin.

"Yes, well, we're almost four months in from the incident, and you've made no progress. He might have been your best friend, but is there a reason you aren't able to move past this? Are there any words, any feelings, you never got the chance to voice?"

John stared at her. He felt two-dimensional, like a child's paper doll. One strong gust of wind would blow him over—show everyone just how little substance there was left that made him a person. He cleared his throat. "I cared deeply for Sherlock. Like I said, he was my best mate. I don't think it's unreasonable to struggle with the suicide of a close friend."

To her credit, Ella didn't sigh. She just nodded her head, scribbling on her pad. "Okay, John. Okay."

* * *

The empty click sounded just as Sherlock crashed into John, tipping the armchair and sending them both spilling over backwards. The gun clattered away.

John took stock of the moment. He was alive. That fact loomed above all others. He'd pulled the trigger, but the gun hadn't discharged. So here he was, quite alive and none too happy about it.

The second fact that loomed, quite literally, was Sherlock. If he was a hallucination, he was a damn good once. The man straddled him awkwardly on the floor, the heels of his palms pressing into John's shoulders, stormy eyes wide with—what was that, disbelief?

"I didn't think you'd do it," the detective murmured.

Yes, disbelief, then. "What?"

"I didn't think you'd actually pull the trigger. I thought I could talk you down."

John wrestled the larger man off of him, rolling him to the side. He stood, collecting his gun, inspecting it. "You took the clip out," he said, flashing him an accusatory glare.

Sherlock stood too, straightening his thick, wool coat. "Of course I did. I didn't want suicide to be an actual choice. Just wanted to give you the illusion of choice. I'd hoped you wouldn't cross the line—"

A left hook to the face silenced the detective. "You don't get to disappear for six months and then come back and control my life, you sick prick!"

Sherlock hunched over, cupping the cheek that John had just struck. He stared at John with wide eyes. "What, I'm just supposed to sit back and let you off yourself?" he shot back, although his voice wavered.

"It's none of your damn business anymore!" John snapped. "You died! Or disappeared, or whatever the hell it is you did. No note, no message, no 'Oh, by the way, I'm not actually dead, John.' You let me watch you die and then you left me!" Those last words took the wind out of his sails, leaving him deflated and small. "You left me."

Like hell he was going to cry now. John violently swiped at his eyes, pre-emptively wiping the tears that threatened. "Do you have any idea what my life has been like since you died?"

Sherlock lowered his gaze. "I'm sorry. I didn't think it would affect you like this."

John blinked. "How can you be so brilliant, yet such an unmitigated idiot? Of course it affected me like this! You were my best mate. And now you're back and everything is bullocksed up. It's so messed up." He collapsed into the nearby desk chair, cradling his temples. "My head fucking hurts."

They were both still for a moment. Dust filtered through the afternoon light slanting in from the window. A car horn blared outside.

"Why?" John said, head still in his hands.

"'Why' what?"

"Why did you die? And if you were alive this whole time, why didn't you let me know?"

Sherlock righted the armchair. He walked around it, planting himself firmly in it, both hands on the armrests. He glanced at John. "I'll tell you everything."

* * *

At first it was a relief that John was quiet through the explanation. Occasionally, he asked a clarifying question, but the whole affair was rather calm. It began to disturb Sherlock when they got to the crux of the matter—concealing the truth from John—and the doctor didn't scowl or threaten to punch him again. He just nodded, taking the information in as if Sherlock were merely describing the weather.

When he finished explaining, John sat silent for a moment, his clasped hands propped against his forehead. Then he nodded to himself and stood up. "I understand," he said, making his way to the kitchen.

Sherlock ghosted after him, unwilling to let the doctor out of his sight.

"Just putting on the kettle," John said. He sounded exhausted.

"You're not mad. Why aren't you mad?"

John let out a pent-up sigh. He grabbed two cups and saucers from the cupboard, setting them out on the counter. "I don't get mad a whole lot anymore. I don't know where that anger came from earlier. Bit of a surprise to me, really. But I'm too tired to be mad right now. God, I'm so tired."

Sherlock flinched. John was apathetic—the most dangerous kind of depression. The hardest to climb out of and treat. He was cheered somewhat by John's outburst earlier; he hadn't completely lost touch with his emotions. It had taken a serious trigger to prompt feelings from him, but it wasn't hopeless.

"So, are you staying then? Your brother is still covering half the rent, after all, and now I suppose I know why." John took the kettle off as it began to whistle.

"For now, if that's alright. I traced one of Moriarty's cells back to London. I'll have to remain inconspicuous, so please don't alert anyone to my presence here. Once that cell is dealt with, I'm afraid I'll have to go abroad again."

John shrugged, setting the timer. "All the same to me. Just keep it down at night; looks like I'm going in to work tomorrow after all."

* * *

The flat was quiet in the morning. Not that John expected anything less. Unless he was playing violin or shooting the damn wall, Sherlock didn't make a whole lot of noise with his antics. Still, John had expected that arrogant cunt to be hovering over him, fending off anything that might seem like a threat to John's safety.

But Sherlock wasn't there when John stepped into the kitchen, surveying it with bleary eyes. Everything looked normal. Everything looked terribly dull without that infuriating, brilliant man to light it all up. Just as it had before.

John went about making tea and toast, coasting as if in a dream. What had happened yesterday? Had he made it all up? Had it been some terrible, wonderful hallucination after all? There was no evidence of Sherlock's return; no luggage or new experiments cultivating in the fridge. Which, John reasoned, should have hurt him on some level; the sudden reappearance and disappearance of his friend should have stirred something in him. Sadness—was that the emotion he should feel? John tried on a frown, but his face felt like clay. The truth was he didn't feel anything.

When breakfast was ready, he brought it to the sitting room. He was about to set his plate on the side table next to his armchair when he noticed a scrap of paper that didn't belong there.

 _John,_

 _Following a lead. Be back late. Don't be an idiot while I'm out._

 _SH_

 _P.S._

 _It was good to see you. I've missed you._

John read the note several more times, something fluttering in his chest as he read. Something tiny, muffled, and fragile. Before he realized it, the corners of his mouth were quirked ever so slightly in the smallest of smiles.

The moment passed quickly, before John could even consciously take stock of it. The flat was so quiet, so thunderously quiet that it smothered the emotion away, leaving John chewing his toast dully. The apathy had returned, settling on his shoulders like a sodden jacket. It made his movements mechanical, hands jerky. Time was measured by the clock, not by moments and his thoughts in those moments. Life was the twenty minutes between now and when he left for the clinic. And then it would be measured by the eight hours he spent there.

It was chillier than the weather report had promised when John stepped out the door. He thought about running back up and fetching a scarf, but decided against it; the brisk February air woke him up, slapping some feeling into his face. He squinted against the bright morning sun, which seemed to radiate painfully off of everything—the windows of nearby buildings, the sidewalk, cars zooming by. It was disorienting, the sheer brilliance of it, but it was so _alive_ —as if the sun was trying to prove its existence personally to him.

The tube stop was a few blocks away, but John didn't mind the walk this morning. There weren't a lot of people about at this hour, only those headed to work: five large, shaggy dogs hauled a distressed dog-walker behind them; a woman in a charcoal pantsuit clacked along, nibbling a poppy seed bagel; a bloke in a hardhat and safety vest assessed a building with a clipboard.

The head nurse, an elderly man named Seamus, greeted John cheerily when he stepped into the office. John returned the greeting rather than felt it.

"You've got a full day ahead of you, Dr Watson," Seamus warned with a smile, bringing a stack of patients' charts into his office. "Seems like we have another epidemic of the sniffles on our hands."

John nodded, pressing his lips into what he hoped resembled a smile. "Thank you, Seamus."

"Of course, Dr Watson," he replied amiably. No matter how many times John had told him to call him by his first name, the nurse never listened. John had given up and grown apathetic towards the issue. "Yvette will be assisting you today. Please let me know if you need any additional help."

"Will do."

John was relieved when the nurse closed the office door on his way out. He was exhausted already, and he hadn't even started the work day. All these tiny interactions with people, people who believed the happy face he put on, drained him. Yvette especially, and he was not looking forward to an entire day of working with the nurse. He had nothing against the woman; she was perfectly amicable and pleasant; yet she somehow always made children cry, and it grated on him. He suspected it was her over-done appearance: she had a great coif of hair, blond and black streaks, that was blown-dry to resemble a taxidermied wolverine; her face was plastered with foundation that seemed better suited for an Oompa Loompa; and she maintained immaculate two-inch long fake nails that were invariably some distracting neon shade. He idly wondered what Sherlock could deduce about her life by her appearance.

 _No_ , he mentally berated himself, _do not think of that insufferable man._

Yvette's nails were highlighter yellow today, and she used them to expertly extract frantic sobs from a colicky five year-old, their first patient of the day. All her cooing and bribing only served to incense the child further, so John sent her to go see if some bloodwork had returned from the lab. He knew it hadn't, having just checked fifteen minutes earlier, but he _could not_ stand the child screaming anymore.

"Hey, mate, I hear you're not feeling so well, yeah?" John said as he squatted in front of his patient, who was planted firmly in his mother's lap. "That's no good. We need to get you feeling better. Can I put you on the table and have a look?"

The child hiccupped as his sobs slowed, nodding once. So John carefully lifted him under the arms from his mother and placed him on the examination table. When the sobs threatened to return, John showed him his stethoscope. "You can hear your heart through this. Want to try?"

The boy looked to his mother, who gave an encouraging smile. "Go on, sweetheart, if the doctor doesn't mind."

John carefully placed the ear pieces in the boy's ears and put the scope on his own chest. He waited, the child's face blank. But then it lit up through the tears.

"I can hear your heart!" he said. And he patted the rhythm out on his own tiny chest, mouthing along. _Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump._

"That's right," John said, reclaiming his stethoscope. "Maybe you'll be a doctor someday. You can give me a check-up when I'm not feeling good."

The boy looked thoughtful. "When doctors get sick, do they see another doctor?"

"Mhm. Each doctor has a doctor." He began to make progress with his examination.

"That's silly. You should just make yourself better."

"Deep breath in," John murmured. He listened to the sound of the child's lungs. "It is kind of silly, I guess," he admitted, feeling the boy's lymph nodes. "But what if I hurt my back? I can't reach my own back. I'd need another doctor to do it. And some doctors learn special things that are different from other doctors. There are special eye doctors, foot doctors, and heart doctors."

"Heart doctors. For when your heart is hurting?"

John didn't know why that statement struck him, but he could feel the corners of his eyes sting. "Yes, for when your heart is hurting," he said, finishing his examination and ducking his head behind the boy's chart. He scribbled two prescriptions down, handing them to the child's mother.

"Let me know if he doesn't improve. If these don't help, we're probably looking at a mild food allergy. Give it a week to see if his stomach calms down." He turned to the boy, lifting him down from the table. "You were brilliant, mate. Can I get a high-five?"

The boy shook his head violently. "We don't do high-fives in school. We do fist bumps. Like this, see?" He held his left fist out, grabbing John's hand and gently bumping knuckles. "I saw it in a movie."

John smiled, and it didn't feel wholly forced. "I'll have to remember that. Feel better, yeah? I don't want to see you here again until your next regular check-up."

"Yes, Dr Watson." He waved as his mother led him out by the hand.

Yvette returned a few seconds later. "The bloodwork you asked about isn't in yet," she said, busying herself cleaning the room.

"Alright, thanks, Yvette," John replied distractedly, filling out the boy's chart.

After tossing the paper, spraying down the vinyl table, and pulling out new paper, Yvette turned to leave. But she paused, glancing at John. "Are you alright, doctor?" she asked.

John stared down at the chart, which he'd been trying to scribble in. Several tears dotted the page. "Yes. Yes, I think I am," he answered.

* * *

A/N: Aw, John is like the Grinch and his heart is growing c: I always thought John would be a good pediatrician. He isn't specifically in this story, just a GP who sees clients of all ages. But I thought the scene with the kid would be nice. Comments and reviews are, simply put, wonderful. Makes me eager to write more. So drop a line if you liked it. Or didn't. I'm told I handle criticism well.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you to all my wonderful readers! I'm delighted to have reviews now. Such a warm, fuzzy feeling. This one's a bit longer than the other chapters. I don't know what chapter length will be the norm. I just kind of write until I feel it's the end of a chapter. Let me know if the length is an issue. Please enjoy and leave a comment.

* * *

It wasn't even six o'clock when John neared Baker Street on his way back from the clinic. The streets, which had been so calm that morning, were packed with people heading home from work and those heading out for food, drinks, and merriment. The sun had already dipped below the skyline, casting gargantuan shadows and a fuzzy indigo light. The temperature had dropped and was no longer a bracing chill, but a finger-numbing cold.

John paused on the sidewalk, the flat within sight. He didn't really want to go home to that quiet, empty place. Sherlock had told him not to be an idiot while he was out, and John supposed he was more likely to be an idiot if he was alone in the flat with his thoughts and not-feelings. So, while it wasn't an especially appealing alternative, John turned into a pub with the after-work crowd for a pint to avoid the stillness of 221B.

The pub was packed and John could immediately feel his shoulders hunch in response, as if he was being vacuum-sealed in a sardine can. He stood at the bar, regretting his choice, looking to see if he could still skulk away. But the bar tender addressed him over the register, ringing up another patron's order.

"What are you having?" she asked, eyes flicking up to him briefly before returning to the register.

"Uhm, what's on tap?" he asked helplessly, having been too occupied with an escape route to have given his drink choice much thought.

The bar tender gestured behind her at the row of ornate spigot heads.

"Ah, Guinness, then," he mumbled, digging into his wallet.

The bar tender turned around, hand pausing by a stack of glasses. "Half or full?" she shouted to him over the bustle.

"Full, please." He pulled a few notes from his wallet before replacing it. He accepted the glass from her outstretched hand, passing her the money. "No change."

"Thanks, mate," she said, divvying the money in the register before turning to the next customer.

John was left standing with his pint, foam trickling over his hand, not really knowing what to do with himself. He took a few quick sips to make it more manageable, licking the overflow before it started dripping. Then he moved towards the back of the pub, looking for an empty booth. Which wasn't very fruitful. He always had difficulty shouldering through a crowd due to his short stature, and before he could trudge over to the empty booth he spotted, a group of laughing women in business suits claimed it.

Again, John was left standing with his drink, not knowing what to do with himself.

"You look lost," a woman's voice called.

John turned, although belatedly he thought it probably wasn't addressed to him. But he caught the gaze of a woman sitting nearby with a booth to herself. She smiled at his confused expression, waving him over.

"Thought I'd save you from the crowd," she said. "Take a load off."

"Er, thanks," John replied, sliding in across from her.

She wasn't pretty in the traditional sense, her shoulders and forehead too broad to be considered strictly feminine. But she had thick, kinky hair the color of chocolate and her smile was warm. She held out a hand across the table. "Sabrina," she said.

John felt himself automatically mirroring the gesture. "John," he replied, taking her hand. It was warm, the grip firm.

"So are you meeting someone here, John?" she asked, taking a sip from her pint.

"Uh, no, I was on my way home from work. Just thought I'd stop in for a drink."

She nodded. "One of those days?"

"You could say that." He took a drink, remembering slowly that conversations required his interest and participation. "And you? Meeting someone?"

Sabrina laughed, throwing her head back as if he'd told a marvelous joke. "Hardly. I just got dumped and I figured it was better to go out than mope in my flat."

John's eyebrows went up.

"Sorry, too personal? I just sort of blabber what comes to mind. I forget that not all of it is appropriate. Need to work on that mental filter, yeah?" She smiled again, as if she found all of this, her break-up and John's reaction, terribly funny.

He tried to backpedal a little. "No, no, you're fine. I just—I'm a little rusty with conversation."

She narrowed her eyes playfully. "You some sort of hermit? Or a run-away Franciscan breaking his vows?"

It was meant to be funny, John supposed, so he made a sound he thought was close enough to laughter. "Uh, no, just been keeping to myself a lot recently."

"It's good to focus on yourself," Sabrina said through a sip of beer. "They say others can't enjoy your company unless you enjoy it yourself. Whoever 'they' are. That's a load of shite, isn't it? Something to make us lonely people feel better, yeah?"

John blinked at her. "You think I'm lonely?"

"A bloke by himself in a pub? Yeah, I'd say you're probably lonely." She looked him over. "Very lonely, I'd say. You seem… I don't know what word I'm looking for. Grey?"

Self-consciously, John ran his hand through his hair. "Grey?" he echoed.

She waved dismissively. "Not your hair, you git. Although you do have a bit of a silver fox thing going on. I meant more generally. You have waves of 'blah' coming off of you. Not to say that you're dull," she said quickly, "you just seem ready to go bury yourself in a hole, you know? Kind of a big 'fuck it.' No offense, mate."

This conversation had taken a turn John hadn't foreseen. The 'hole' comment hit terribly close to home. He tugged at a loose thread on the hem of his jumper. "I suppose so," he finally admitted.

"Nothing to be ashamed of," Sabrina said, taking a drink. "Everyone gets in a rut now and then. I'm in one right now, although I'll be quite put-out if I'm not back to normal in a week. That useless cunt isn't worth pining over."

John watched the perspiration tumble down the side of his glass. "It's been like this for six months for me. Beginning to think it's permanent."

Sabrina's smile died, replaced by a startlingly compassionate look. "Hey now," she said, taking his hand, "you'll get over it. Sometimes it just takes a little longer."

"Yeah," John said, taking his hand back to grab his drink.

She smiled again. "I've got a brilliant idea. Why don't you and I stop being so bloody lonely and go back to my place. Tear each others' clothes off. That would take the 'blah' away for bit."

John looked at her, his eyebrows creeping up. He hadn't had sex in… Well, it was longer than he bothered to count. And the idea didn't seem wholly unappealing. She seemed a nice enough woman, and a casual fling might be the thing to keep him from being, as Sherlock called it, 'an idiot.'

"Alright," he croaked, trying to find his voice again.

"Yeah?" she said, her eyes lighting up. "Well, let me go close my tab and I'll be right back."

Sabrina disappeared in the throng of people, leaving John to put his face in his hands. He immediately regretted agreeing to the proposition. It would most likely be a night of him pretending to be interested, with lots of fake groans and grunts until he passed out on top of her. And then he'd have to lie there, feeling the waves of her disappointment until an appropriate hour presented itself for his escape.

He sighed.

Sabrina returned shortly, holding the crook of her arm out for him to take. "All set," she said.

John downed the remainder of his drink and took her arm obligingly. They worked their way to the door, Sabrina being a much better crowd-navigator than John. Soon they were on the street, making their way towards her place, walking away from 221B.

It wouldn't be so bad, John tried to reassure himself. He could make sure she had a fun time, at least. It wouldn't be too hard to fake a smile, laugh at her jokes, groan her name. Maybe he'd even get into it. Maybe all he needed was a little kick in the gut to get him going.

They hadn't walked more than five minutes when John heard someone running up to them from behind. He glanced back. When he saw who it was, his mouth made a little 'o.'

Sherlock approached them, huffing, his cheeks pink with the exertion. "John!" he said raggedly, trying to catch his breath.

Sabrina took in the sight, frowning. "Friend of yours?" she asked.

"Yes, I'm a friend of John Watson's," Sherlock answered sharply before John could even collect his thoughts. "And I've come to tell him the terrible news. You haven't been answering your mobile, John. I've been trying it all evening."

That was a bloody lie. He hadn't gotten a single message from anyone, let alone Sherlock. But the detective ploughed on before John could contradict him.

"It's as we feared, I'm afraid. The test came back positive. John, you have HIV."

Sabrina instantly dropped her arm from John, staring at him accusingly.

"What?" he spluttered, a vein at his temple throbbing. "What the devil are you even talking about?"

"It's my fault, really," Sherlock continued, looking genuinely remorseful. "It was our break-up that drove you to the heroin."

"Heroin?" Sabrina demanded, the venom in her eyes growing. "And you're gay?"

"No, no," John snapped. "He's just making a joke. A terrible, not-funny joke. Ignore him."

Suddenly John found himself in Sherlock's arms, the man's chin resting on his forehead. "Denial is the first step in the grieving process, John. It's okay. Let it all out."

John shoved the detective off of him, turning to see Sabrina had already started walking away. "Wait!" he called.

"Invitation revoked," she called back, her face stony. "Good luck with… things." She turned and kept walking.

John watched her go in stunned silence before rounding on Sherlock.

The detective had dropped the pretense, his expression back to its natural state of mild boredom and inquisitiveness. "I thought she'd never leave," he sniffed.

The anger that boiled up was so strong, so unexpected, that John didn't really remember even punching Sherlock. The strength of the blow sent the taller man sprawling on the sidewalk. An elderly woman walking by squawked, skirting away. Several people stopped to stare warily.

"You absolutely—insufferable, arrogant—what the ruddy, bloody hell do you—? I can't even believe that you would stoop so low—you horrible, ignorant, brainless, thoughtless, careless shite excuse for a man!" John spewed out, words tumbling over themselves in an effort to be expressed.

Sherlock stood, a hand to his cheek. "Did you have to hit me quite so hard?"

"Yes!" John roared. "And I ought to do it again!"

But he didn't. He stood there, right arm tense, fist-formed, panting, trying to blink through the dots of anger framing his vision.

"All this noise isn't exactly helping me to be inconspicuous, John," Sherlock said. "Can you shout less loudly?"

John pushed down the overwhelming urge to strangle Sherlock right then and there. He took deep breaths, trying to remember the breathing technique Ella Thompson had taught him. After several tense moments, his shoulders slumped, and he felt faint as the adrenaline left his system. He blew out a forceful sigh, glaring at Sherlock. "Back to the flat. Now," he hissed.

Sherlock merely shrugged, walking alongside John, but giving him a wide berth. "I told you not to be an idiot while I was out."

John fumed beside him. "And how, pray tell, was I being an idiot?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if it was the stupidest question John could have asked. "Meaningless sex is not good for depression, John. You're a doctor. I thought you'd know that. And I told you Moriarty had a cell in London. Suppose she was working for him."

"Not everyone in London is working for Moriarty!"

"Obviously."

John glared at the detective. "And what about you? I thought you were supposed to be in hiding. Now everyone on Baker Street has seen your face, and you're famous! You put yourself and everyone else in jeopardy to be a cockblock!" He paused, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "How did you know what I was doing anyway? Or where I even was? Have you been following me?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course I haven't been following you. That would be tedious."

" _You_ haven't been. But _someone_ has. Do you have Mycroft tailing me?"

The look of horror on Sherlock's face made John feel slightly better. "Do you really think I'd call in a favor from my brother to follow you when I have other, more efficient options at my disposal?"

"So you have been following me."

"I already said I haven't been following you. Why are you repeating yourself? I detest repetition."

John grabbed the arm of Sherlock's jacket, turning him. "Stop playing games. Do you have people following me, yes or no?"

"I don't play games, John—"

"Yes or no!"

Sherlock sighed, reclaiming his arm from John's grasp. "Of course I have people following you. You tried to kill yourself yesterday. You're sorely mistaken if you think I'm going to leave you unattended for a single moment."

"I'm not a child, Sherlock!"

"No," he admitted, his voice soft. "You're not. But you're in danger. I almost failed to protect you once. I'm not making the same mistake again." His gaze was on John. It wasn't piercing, as it normally was. It was almost… tender? Tender was not a word associated with Sherlock Holmes. "You are… my one friend in this world, John Watson, and I was such an idiot that I almost lost you. I simply will not allow that to happen again. A world without John Watson is not a world I much care for."

John stared at him, his mouth agape. The detective smiled slightly, although it seemed tainted by guilt. He ran a careless hand from John's shoulder to his elbow before turning away and continuing to the flat. "Besides," he said, his voice back to its normal, irritating self, "that woman was ovulating and was going to break the condom in the hopes of getting pregnant. It would have been tiresome to deal with you moping about child support until the end of time."

John shook his head, trying to fight the small smile on his face. He certainly did not find this horribly obnoxious man _endearing_. Leave it to Sherlock to ruin a moment of sentimentality.

* * *

When they returned to the flat, John felt his stomach growling and set about making something to eat. The fridge was embarrassingly barren; he considered a tub of cottage cheese, past its expiration. He sniffed it, but it smelled no more or less stinky than cottage cheese normally did. He put it back in the fridge to be dealt with at a later date.

"Who all knows you're back in London?" he called to Sherlock, who was busying himself in the sitting room with a stack of papers. Toast and tea might have to suffice for supper.

"Hm," Sherlock said, tacking one of the papers to his web. "Just you. And Mycroft, of course, but he hardly counts."

John nodded. "Cuppa?"

Sherlock didn't answer, seemingly wrapped up in whatever it was he was doing.

John put on water enough for two and popped a few slices of bread into the toaster. He wandered to the sitting room, watching the detective jump about in agitation. "Are you planning on avoiding Mrs Hudson, then?"

The detective ripped several sticky notes from the wall, crumpling them. "What are you on about?"

"Mrs Hudson. Our landlady. She's going to figure out you're here."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "She's noisy and easy to predict. I'll hear her coming if she's going to barge in."

"And do what, exactly? Hide in the broom closet?"

"Not the worst idea. There's also the fire escape, which I used this morning since she seemed determined to putter about the landing. Rather inconvenient, but I suppose it can't be avoided."

"Yes. Yes it can be avoided. Just tell her you're back."

Sherlock looked at John as if he'd sprouted another head. "And have all of London figure out I'm here? Really, John, she's a hopeless gossip. I'd be dead within the hour."

John felt a surge of protectiveness for the old woman, but he couldn't exactly argue against Sherlock's assessment. Their landlady did like to prattle. He crossed his arms. "You just walked boldfaced down Baker Street, and caused a scene to boot, yet you're worried Mrs Hudson is going to give you away?"

The detective groaned, throwing his stack of papers into the air. They scattered across the sitting room. "Stop being so tedious, John. I'm dead, remember? No one in their right mind is going to see me on the street and think I'm Sherlock Holmes. Now, if you'd be so kind, there are papers everywhere. I can't work with this mess."

"Are you purposefully trying to piss me off?" John snapped, returning to the kitchen when the toast popped up.

Sherlock paused, looking to John with his bright, stormy eyes. "Is it working?"

John fumed silently, smearing honey over his dinner. He remained in the kitchen, crunching on his toast sourly, determined to ignore his flatmate's antics.

But it seemed Sherlock was not content to leave him well enough alone. The detective glided into the kitchen, scrutinizing John with his inquisitive gaze. "You've lost weight," he announced. "Eat something."

"I am," John growled around a mouthful.

"Something more substantial. You can't live off bread."

"You seem to do fine off of ether. I think I'll be okay."

Sherlock snorted. "Hardly. At your current rate of weight loss, you'll be dead within a year. Isn't nutrition something they teach in medical school?"

"I can't deal with this right now," John said, dropping his food back onto the plate. He turned his pockets inside out, depositing his keys, wallet, and phone on the counter. Then, he stalked away.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

"Deduce it," John said, heading into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.

The bathroom was deliciously quiet. And, better yet, free of Sherlock pestering him. John turned on the shower, stripping efficiently. As the water heated up, he glanced at himself in the mirror. He did look skinnier than normal. Gaunt, even. He rubbed at the bags under his eyes, imagining away the wear and tear on his body. _When the hell did I get so old?_ he thought.

John stepped into the water, scalding hot. It was uncomfortable, but he stood there, letting the water blast his face, trying to wash away the jumble inside his head. He remained statuesque until the water became cool, then quickly washed and toweled off. By the end, he was feeling much calmer, ready to enjoy a nice cuppa in silence.

But when he got out, Sherlock nearly pounced him, his gaze feverish. "You didn't tell me you were working on a case," he accused.

"I'm not. I _worked_ on a case. As far as I was concerned, yesterday was the last day I'd be working on it." Dirty clothes in one hand, towel cinched around his waist in the other, John could feel the irritation growing back quickly. "And how the bloody hell do you even know about it?"

His mobile flashed in front of his face. Before John could snatch it back, Sherlock lifted it above his head, far beyond his reach. Damn tree-of-a-man.

"Sherlock!" he snapped.

"You got a text from Lestrade. What was I supposed to do, ignore it?"

"Yes!" John breathed. "It's my phone. The message was for me. Keep your nose out of it."

"But John," the detective whined, sounding like a petulant five year-old, "I haven't worked a real case in so long. Moriarty's cells are _boring_. So straight-forward. Terror this, bomb threats that. A trained monkey could dismantle them. Hell, even Scotland Yard could dismantle them."

John finally managed to snatch his mobile back while Sherlock was distracted, the towel about his waist slipping a few inches as he did so. The tips of his ears burned as he wriggled his hips back into safety. "You can't work this case. You're in hiding, remember?"

Sherlock grabbed his shoulders, squaring him up. "I can work it through you. You do the field work, I'll be the brains. Naturally."

The anger that had been so recently washed away in the shower boiled up again. "You don't just get to bloody waltz in here after six months of being dead and pretend that everything is back to normal!" Blood pounded in his ears, shoulders tremoring with emotion. His heart drummed in his chest.

He felt so… alive.

Damn that man.

Sherlock had dropped his hands and was looking into John's eyes searchingly, as if he was trying to deduce… what, exactly? "I'm sorry, John," he said softly. "I'm sorry."

John felt his resolve crumbling under the detective's earnest gaze. He turned away. "Let me put some clothes on and we can talk about the case," he said. He was not crying in front of Sherlock bloody Holmes. He was _not_.

The detective hummed an assent, and John fled the stairs to his bedroom, clutching the towel about his waist like a lifeline, hoping that infuriating man hadn't noticed the tears running down his face.

* * *

A/N: Please review! It makes my day :)


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Some fluff ahead. Hope it goes over well ;) Thanks to all my readers. Reviews, please!

* * *

They'd never really used the roof of 221B Baker Street before, for the simple reason that it wasn't meant to be used—only accessible by the fire escape and some tricky maneuvering around some wiring and Mrs Hudson's antenna. But Sherlock wanted a smoke, and he didn't much care to loiter in front of the building where he could be easily caught by the landlady. So Sherlock and John found themselves on the precariously-slanted roof, the last rays of sun painting London in a hazy golden light.

Sherlock drew a box of cigarettes from the pocket of his Belstaff, mouthing one and lighting it with a practiced air of indifference. He took a long drag, sighing around the smoke as he exhaled. He turned to John, his eyebrows creeping up, when he heard another lighter flick.

"You smoke now?" he asked his flatmate, tapping ash from his fag.

John shrugged. "Only thing that seemed to help with the depression." He took a long drag, eyes flicking to the taller man. "I didn't comment when you said you wanted a smoke. I'd appreciate the same courtesy."

Sherlock nodded, although he couldn't take his eyes off the doctor.

They remained silent for a few moments, leaning against different sides of the chimney, puffing away. Finally, John said, "The text?"

"Mm." Sherlock pinched the cigarette between his thumb and index finger, running his free hand through a mop of curly brown hair. "Lestrade said he ordered a tox screen and autopsy on the first victim, but something came up. Wants you to meet him at Bart's."

John nodded, absorbing the information thoughtfully.

"Tell me about the case." Sherlock's voice was bored, but John noticed the unbridled curiosity in the man's grey eyes.

John filled him in about his trip to the prison, the not-dead second victim, the first victim, and the nature of the deaths. He was exhausted when he finished, having spoken more than he had in months. He flicked his cigarette butt over the side of the building.

Sherlock got that wild look he always got when a key detail became obvious to him. "How quickly was the first body removed from the prison after he was pronounced dead?"

"I don't know," John said. "You have as much information as I do at this point. Why?"

"Because your first victim isn't really dead either," he snapped, lighting a second fag.

The dots connected slowly for John, and the truth of Sherlock's implication smothered him more effectively than a pillow held to his face. "Oh god," he murmured, standing upright. "That man is alive… was alive. Awaiting burial, cremation. An autopsy. Christ." John hurried back down the fire escape, fumbling one-handedly with his mobile to dial Lestrade as he climbed.

Sherlock watched, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

* * *

John burst through the doors to the morgue, panting. Lestrade's assurances over the phone that the victim hadn't been buried, lit up, or carved into while alive didn't do much to quell the panic in his gut. A small, nagging part of his brain wished for his flatmate's presence; he would deduce all the danger away, put his mind at ease more easily than any of Lestrade's vague platitudes. John shook his head, forcing those thoughts away. He was still angry at the man.

"Where is he?" John demanded.

Lestrade and Molly Hooper turned to him. "John," Lestrade called, approaching him, "calm down."

That was the last thing he wanted to do, calm down. But he suppressed a smart remark when Lestrade placed a firm hand on his good shoulder.

"He's gone. Vanished. I ordered the body be brought here for the tox screen and autopsy. The body bag the mortuary dropped off contained the wrong bloke. A homeless man, nobody thought he'd be missed. The mortuary claims they don't know how it happened, and have searched their facility high and low for our man, but he's gone. And since they don't have security footage inside their building, we have nothing to go off of."

John felt himself coming down from his panic-high. He placed a shaky hand on a table to steady himself. "This wasn't a murder," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "This was a prison break."

Lestrade nodded. "We need to talk to the second victim—he knows more about this than he's letting on. You can't exactly plan a prison break without communicating with the prisoner."

John shoved off the table, feeling more solid. He looked at Molly, who was paler than usual. "Who's this poor sod?" he murmured, gesturing to the man in the body bag.

She frowned. "We're not sure. He's not in our system. But his appearance suggests he was homeless."

"Was he murdered?"

"I don't think so," Molly replied quietly. "I'll need to perform a full autopsy to be sure, but there are no indicators of violent death. No defensive wounds, no foreign skin under his fingernails to indicate a struggle."

John nodded stiffly. That was good. No one had been killed to smuggle the prisoner out—at least, no one they were aware of yet. "Did you get the tox screen back on our second man?"

Molly bent beside the table, retrieving a manila folder from a bag. She flipped it open, handing him a paper-clipped stack of papers. "You were right about the drug. There was enough tetrodotoxin in his system to cause an overdose, leading to the death-like state. It's nothing short of a miracle that he was able to recover from it, let alone so quickly."

The two doctors were left mystified. The numbers on the man's bloodwork were staggering. It should have been a lethal dose, or left him comatose. Yet he'd been perfectly healthy when John had examined him.

"I need to get back over to the prison to question him," Lestrade said, breaking the silence. "Something's going on, and I don't like it. Donovan is already on her way to the mortuary to question the personnel, but I don't suspect anything will shake out over there." He began shouldering into his jacket, which had been thrown across a clean table. "I'll keep you apprised, John. Might need your expertise."

When the detective inspector had left, Molly smiled tightly and took John's hand. "You look better, John. I'm glad to see it."

John gave her hand a small squeeze. "I'm feeling a bit better, yeah. Thanks." He dropped her hand. "I'll leave you to it."

"See you around," she said to his retreating back.

* * *

Sherlock was down from the roof, back in the flat, when John returned. The detective had his violin tucked under his chin, his empty bow-hand ghosting over the strings in a silent melody. He didn't turn when the front door banged shut. John tossed his coat across his armchair.

"Sherlock—" he began, but the man shushed him.

"This is the best part," he murmured, continuing his pantomime bowing. After a few moments, he placed the instrument carefully back into its case. "What did Lestrade show you?" he asked, snapping the lid shut.

"A confusing mess," John said, reliving the scene at the morgue.

When he finished, Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. "Of course, Lestrade is going about this all wrong. There's no point in questioning the second victim; he doesn't know anything."

John started to ask how Sherlock knew that, but stopped himself, shaking his head. At this point, he could just trust the statement as fact. "Alright, well how _should_ he be going about it?"

Sherlock sunk into his armchair, hands steepled below his chin. "Records of prison deaths, obviously, within the past month. Find out who else is being sprung from jail. The connections between the 'victims' will lead you to whoever is granting their freedom. Yes, don't look at me like that, John. There are most likely others; this game-player has demonstrated resources and planning to be operating on a larger scale." And because he was Sherlock bloody Holmes, he didn't need John to ask how he knew the second victim was innocent. "Either the mastermind behind this—if he could be called that—is a complete idiot—possible, I grant—or your second man was a mistake—in which case, he's still a bloody idiot. One mysterious death in a prison is likely to be overlooked. Two and you have the police sniffing around. So only the first man was intended to receive a dose of tetrodotoxin. I suspect you'll find single inmate deaths in solitary throughout London, perhaps all of England."

John began typing away on his phone. He hesitated, glancing at the detective. "Lestrade will suspect something when I'm making your brilliant deductions."

Sherlock gestured vaguely. "Then make them sound less brilliant. You're good at that."

"Git," John huffed, sending the text.

It was late evening by this point. The windows were dark, but periodically something small and white would flash by. It caught John's eye, and he looked to the window. Tiny snowflakes fluttered about; they seemed so small and fragile. He approached, pressing his right palm to the frigid pane. The wind continued to buffet the flurries about, heedless of John's sorrowful expression.

John sensed the presence behind him right before long arms enveloped him, pale hands clasped in front of his waist.

"Sherlock—?" he said, starting to turn in the man's embrace.

Those arms tightened around him. They were strong, warm, comforting. John let out a sigh, melting slightly. The fabric of Sherlock's Belstaff was soft against his cheek; he smelled of wool, smoke, and something distinctly _Sherlock_. _Alive. He's here. He's alive._ Each breath that skirted through John's hair reaffirmed that simple fact.

"I am so sorry, John," the detective breathed into his hair. "You are… the single most important thing to me on this earth. I don't expect you to forgive me, but—"

This time John managed to turn in Sherlock's arms, staring up into his grey eyes, too close to look away or think or breathe. "I've already forgiven you," he said, barely a whisper, running a gentle touch over the bruise on the man's right cheek. Then he fiercely wrapped his arms around Sherlock, burying his face into his chest.

They simply stood there, wrapped up in each other, feeling their shared heartbeats. It was so delightfully warm. John felt safe for the first time since Sherlock's fall, secure in the man's embrace. Relief flooded him as he breathed in Sherlock's scent; yet, he couldn't stop the tremors in his hands, clenching the wool coat tightly in his fingers, afraid that if he loosened his grip or opened his eyes that Sherlock would be gone again. He felt the detective begin to end the hug, and the thought was so terrifying that he tightened his grip, almost painfully, squeezing his eyes shut. _Don't let go. Just stay with me a bit longer._

"John," Sherlock said, his voice muffled against his head, "you're trembling."

Firmly, the detective broke the contact, holding him at arm's length, looking into his eyes. John almost cried for the loss of contact, cold seeping in where there had been warmth. "John, look at me."

Hesitantly, John raised his gaze. This overwhelming need to touch and hold his friend left him feeling pathetic, ashamed. He wanted to curl in on himself and sink into the floorboards. He was a soldier, damn it. He didn't need to be coddled and held like a scared child. He was better than that.

But there was no disgust or judgment in Sherlock's penetrating look. His grey eyes softened, and he ran a smoothing hand down John's cheek. "You're crying," he breathed. "Why are you crying?"

John couldn't stand it anymore. He pulled Sherlock into him roughly, hiding his tear-streaked face against the man's lapels. "Oh god, I've missed you so much," he choked, curling his fingers into the detective's navy scarf. "I've missed you so much."

Sherlock hesitated a moment, then wrapped his arms around John once more, his right hand stroking his short hair. "I'm here."

"Don't you ever do that again!" John sobbed against the man's chest. "Don't ever disappear again. I couldn't stand it."

"I won't," Sherlock promised.

When all his tears were spent, John released his grip on Sherlock's scarf. He wiped his eyes with his knuckles stubbornly. He hadn't cried in so long, not like that. It was exhausting. "Look at me," John muttered, turning away. "I'm an absolute mess." His eyes were red and puffy, and his nose threatened to run.

"No," Sherlock said, scrutinizing him with bright eyes.

"No?" John looked at Sherlock, immobile under his direct gaze.

"No, John, you're not a mess," the detective repeated. "You're absolutely beautiful." He closed the distance, one hand cradling his head, the other at his hip, and kissed him.

The shock died quickly as warmth spread from John's lips to his toes. He closed his eyes, placing his hands on Sherlock's slim hips, and focused on the soft sensation of their lips meeting tenderly. It was slow, each kiss like an embrace. Their lips fit together perfectly, melding with each meeting. John didn't want it to end. _Why can't we stay like this? The rest of the world can sod off._

It was over before John would have liked; cold air met his lips where Sherlock's warmth had been before. He opened his eyes slowly, feeling drugged, to see the detective looking at him with half-lidded eyes, his breathing unsteady.

"I've had a lot of time to think these past six months," Sherlock said shakily, "and I must confess that overwhelmingly I have thought of you. What you mean to me. What I would do if I ever got the chance to see you again." His head bobbed forward, as if unconsciously going for another kiss, eyes on John's lips. But he caught himself, as if falling, eyes returning to John's incredulous gaze. "I… I am not a sentimental man, John Watson, but you make me _feel_ things, and I'm not sure I don't want to feel them anymore."

When John didn't immediately reply, Sherlock continued. "I know you don't feel the same. I know you don't, and that's alright. But I've spent all this time away, my life in constant danger, and I couldn't bear the thought of leaving this earth without expressing how much you mean to me."

"Sherlock," John croaked.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, creating space between them. He tightened his scarf around his neck. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I'm going to get some air." He opened the window, long legs disappearing over the sill. The last thing John saw was his mop of chocolate curls as he ducked his head out. A bitter chill left was left in his wake.

John stood, hugging himself against the cold. Why was it so damn cold without Sherlock? The man was brilliant and warm like the sun; a shadow fell when he wasn't around.

Without grabbing his coat from the armchair, John crawled out the window after him. The wind struck him like a train, instantly setting his teeth to chatter. The fire escape was like ice as he climbed, his hands quickly becoming numb. Snow danced around him, clinging to his jumper.

"Sherlock!" he called, stumbling onto the roof. He scrambled for purchase; his foot found a slick, snow-covered patch and he slipped, ramming his knee into the metal. Then he began to slide to the edge of the roof, the ground looming three stories below.

"Got you!"

John had stopped sliding, his legs dangling. A firm grip anchored his wrist. "Sherlock," he breathed.

Sherlock heaved him back to safety, back into his arms. "You're an idiot, John Watson," he hissed into the shorter man's hair.

But John wasn't to be chastised right now. He ruffled out of Sherlock's grasp, glaring up at him. "You're the idiot, you big berk. You blindside me by declaring your feelings for me down there and then you… you flee before I have the chance to say anything!"

The detective ducked his head. "I'm sure I didn't want to hear what you were going to say."

"Look," John sighed, taking his flatmate's hands. "I'm confused and mixed up. I need time to sort out how I feel. And I'm still trying to get over you… being dead. And being not-dead. We can't just pick up right where things left off. Regardless of everything, you are the greatest man I've ever known and my best mate. Please… give me some time to think about it."

Sherlock gave him a small smile, hesitantly placing a chaste kiss on his forehead. "You have time. You have as much time as you need. Now," he said, tone becoming businesslike, "you banged your knee pretty badly. We should go in and ice it."

"I'm the doctor here, and I say it's had enough ice for one night."

But they soon made their way back into the flat, and John couldn't help but notice how gentle and caring Sherlock was with him, a steady hand at the small of his back as he climbed down the now-treacherous fire escape. He felt warm all over, despite the freezing cold. So warm from his core to his fingertips. He pressed into Sherlock's lingering touch, telling himself he was still swept up in the emotion of evening. Nothing more. Tomorrow, everything would be back to the way things always were between the two.

And he tried desperately to convince himself that the thought didn't leave him sad. Friends. It had been good enough for so long. It would be good enough again. John was certain.

* * *

A/N: Hehehe John and his crisis of sexuality. Please drop a comment! I'd love it.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Hello, dear readers. I apologize for my unannounced hiatus. It was partly due to life bombarding me and partly due to being perpetually dissatisfied by my many drafts for chapter 5. This is about the twentieth iteration, and the only one that struck me as marginally adequate. It is quite short and exposition-via-dialogue heavy, but I'm uploading it in hopes that this will rejuvenate some of my creative spirit. Thank you to all the old fans who are reading this and thank you to the new fans I've somehow continued to get. Please leaves comments if so inclined.

* * *

The following morning, John was unsurprised to find Sherlock gone and another note in his stead. He read it over tea and the remaining bread, toasted and smeared with honey.

 _John,_

 _Given yesterday's unfortunate scene outside the pub, I feel it's necessary to reiterate: don't be an idiot._

 _I don't know when I'll be home, hopefully late tonight. If you hear someone coming in through the window, please refrain from shooting, as it will most likely be me. In the event that it's not me, you have my leave to use lethal force at your own discretion._

 _SH_

 _P.S._

 _Stock the fridge. It's embarrassingly empty. Left some money on the table for that purpose._

 _P.P.S_

 _Considered closing with "Affectionately," but initially found it overly sentimental. I have since reconsidered._

 _Affectionately,_

 _SH_

As posh as the git was, he hasn't mastered the art of handwriting during his absence. The script was erratic and scrawling, much like its owner. Upon finishing his breakfast, John carefully folded the note and tucked it away; the last note had disappeared some time between yesterday afternoon and this morning, and John had no intention of letting this one be similarly subjected to Sherlock's willful caprice. No, this artifact was his to keep, whether Sherlock liked it or not.

After placing his dishes in the sink, John hurriedly prepared for a day at the clinic. As he was pulling his loafers on over thick, wool socks, a thought suddenly occurred: while Sherlock hadn't been able to safely send word of his safety after the Fall, Mycroft had been under no such constraints.

The realization jarred John from his placid, vague apathy and set a spark deep in his gut, which quickly flicked into steady anger. It was possible, even, that Sherlock had asked Mycroft to inform John and Mycroft had declined for some obscure reason of national security. It would be like Sherlock to stay silent on the matter, as he was about so many others.

Sitting on his bedside, hands clasped too tightly to be comfortable, John found that he had no desire to go to work at that moment. The only thing he wanted to do was storm MI5, clout the other insufferable Holmes brother, and demand answers.

John withdrew his phone from his pocket, staring at it for a moment, before texting Sarah Sawyer.

 _JW: How many appointments are on the books for me this morning?_

The reply came a few minutes later.

 _SS: Why do I get the feeling you're going to ask off... 2_

 _JW: It must be because you're a brilliant and understanding boss._

 _SS: Must be. I hope it's important :P You can cover for me on Saturday to make up._

 _JW: Ta, I'll be there._

And because he never knew where mister professional stick-up-his-arse was at any point in time, John then reluctantly texted Mycroft.

 _JW: We need to talk._

The reply was almost instantaneous.

 _MH: A pleasure to hear from you, Dr. Watson. What is it you'd like to discuss?_

 _JW: You know damn well._

 _MH: I'm afraid I don't. Care to enlighten me?_

 _JW: Don't play games._

 _MH: As a general rule, I don't care much for games. What is this about?_

 _JW: A certain idiot sibling of yours being very much alive._

Although he usually wouldn't have noticed, John was aware of a minor pause before Mycroft's next reply.

 _MH: A car will arrive at Baker St. in ten minutes. Say nothing else on this matter until we've spoken._

John resisted sending him a string of nasty slurs in reply, contenting himself with nearly crushing his phone between his hands. He sat stock still, periodically glaring at the clock until the allotted time came. Then he grabbed his coat and made his way downstairs.

Expecting to find Anthea, John was surprised to see the chauffeur standing outside the car instead, opening the door and ushering him inside. It took him a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior as the towne car smoothly joined the flow of traffic, but it was unmistakably Mycroft in-the-flesh in the seat beside him. John redirected his rage from his itching hands to a stony glare.

Skipping his normal pleasantries, Mycroft observed John steadily and said, "How do you know about Sherlock?"

John blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "He hasn't exactly been subtle about being back in the flat."

"Back in the flat?"

"Yes?" Confusion had taken precedence over the anger for now.

Mycroft let out a put-upon sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'll never understand," he murmured, seemingly to himself, "why Sherlock gets such a thrill from deviating from the plan."

"He's... he's not supposed to be in London?" John asked.

"Oh, no, he has a lead here. But he wasn't supposed to fraternize with old acquaintances, particularly not you, Dr. Watson. He has a designated safehouse on the north side of town, which is explicitly where he's supposed to stay."

That piqued his anger right back up. "'Not supposed to fraternize with old acquaintances'? What reason can you possibly have for keeping him hidden away from his friends any longer? He's been dead six months; he's practically invisible now, and it's not like I'd let on about him! More importantly, why didn't you tell me in the first place? I can understand Sherlock didn't really have a safe opportunity, but you knew. And you have the resources of the entire British government at your fingertips. You couldn't have bothered to send at least a carrier pigeon?"

"John–"

"No, you listen here, Mycroft Holmes. His death wrecked me. I was about to eat a bloody bullet the day that he showed up back at the flat. I thought he was dead. I thought he was fucking dead and it was _my_ fault for not showing up at Bart's sooner, figuring out he'd sent me away. And you could have saved me from all of that. Every last rotting bit. But you didn't. You let me bury him. Why? Christ, why?" John had fomented his rage by this point, breath coming short and pupils dilated, ready to beat Mycroft to a bloody pulp.

Mycroft allowed a few beats of silence. "You're quite done, then?"

"Depends on what you have to say," John answered, tightening his fists pointedly.

"Fine. Given that you're now aware Sherlock is alive, I see no further harm done in providing you with answers. Briefly: you were not informed for two reasons, both of which ultimately lend themselves to a larger purpose. One, it was feared you'd attempt to follow Sherlock abroad, given your undying sense of loyalty. And, two, it seemed likely, given your lack of training in the art of deception, that your awareness of Sherlock would become outwardly obvious, and you would subsequently be killed by Moriarty's man. I assume the overall theme to these reasons is readily apparent."

"Despite what you and your brother say," John snarled, "I'm not an idiot. It's not as though I'd have blogged about it. 'Oh, and by the way, lovely news: Sherlock's alive.' I was privy to highly classified information in the military, and I seemed to get by alright without committing treason."

Mycroft cocked his head, inspecting John like a child might inspect a bug. "You don't understand, do you? No, clearly not. Then let me be explicit: it was not a matter of trust, but a matter of safety. While, most likely, informing you wouldn't have had any negative repercussions, the costs of ' _what if_ ' were simply too high.

"And, if it makes any difference to you, I ran the cost-benefit analysis of telling you against the likelihood that it would result in failure, and I came to the conclusion that it was within safe margins to disclose the plan to you."

John stared at Mycroft, trying to reconcile the contradiction.

Mycroft let out a pent-up breath. "I wanted to tell you, John. But I didn't upon Sherlock's request."

"What?"

"Sherlock and I both ran cost-benefit analyses, but we were operating on different value parameters. Mine objectively focused on the cost-benefit for the nation. Your assassination, although certainly tragic, would not have been entirely a loss; it would have freed us to move on Moriarty's snipers which, in turn, would have provided us with connections and insight into Moriarty's network, thus minimizing the duration of the investigation and, subsequently, the time Sherlock would be in the field. On balance, it was logical to tell you based on my analysis.

"Yet Sherlock no longer operates on a purely rational scale. Although the chances of your death were minute, the potential cost of losing you simply overrode any benefits of informing you. And now we have come full circle in both our conversation," the car pulled over and came to a stop, "and drive."

The door opened, light and noise of the city suddenly streaming in. John was dazzled by the brightness, blinking at the outside world. He staggered from the car, feeling like he knew even less than he had before speaking with Mycroft.

"John," Mycroft called from inside the car, leaning toward the open door to make eye contact, "I told you there were two reasons for keeping you in the dark, both of which stemmed from a greater purpose: protecting you. I implore you to treat that information carefully. And I can presume you won't jeopardize Sherlock's safety by any more dialogue about him over non-secured electronic means? Excellent. Do drop by for tea sometime. The Holmes estate is rather charming this time of year, I'm told."

And as quickly as he'd appeared, Mycroft and his black townecar disappeared into London traffic, leaving John standing numbly outside 221B.


End file.
